


Malade

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Papa France gives me strength, Sickfic, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1934904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papa is always careful with him, always gentle and loving, like he doesn’t want a single odd stroke to ever cross the little boy in his care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malade

Canada knows he’s not supposed to be up this late, after Papa has tucked him into bed and read him a story, but it’s been _forever_ since Papa laid him in his bed all comfy and snug, and he hasn’t fallen asleep for even a _moment_ , because his belly is so upset. He feels hot and shaky, too, and it’s sort of scary not to be able to sleep, and before Canada realizes it, he’s crying out for Papa as he holds his roiling tummy.

He’s never yelled out for Papa to come to him in the night, though, and Canada panics when his crying and whimpers of “Papa, please!” seem to go unheard. However, panic does nothing but make his tummy more upset, and he makes a hiccup before he’s gagging and his throat is burning and he’s coughing up his insides and it _hurts_ and _why isn’t Papa coming_ \--

“Oh, Canada,” he finally hears over the sound of his insides spilling out of his mouth, and he feels Papa’s hands moving back his hair as he vomits in his bed, weeping for Papa to help him, it hurts.

And Papa does, helping to sit Canada up a little before pulling the tiny, trembling child into his arms, cradling Canada’s face to his neck, even though the boy still has vomit on his lips and chin; but, then again, it’s sort of everywhere, so France doesn’t try to avoid it (though it makes him shudder).

“You didn’t tell Papa you were feeling sick, _mon petit lapin_ ,” he says gently, tucking Canada’s hair behind his little ear, looking at him with a frown.

Canada mumbles a little against his elder, still very much in tears-- being sick from the stomach is enough to make _any_ child cry, really, but Canada is such a mild-mannered boy that it’s a bit painful to see him so torn up over something so simple. “It-- it was an accident,” he whispers, moving to wipe his eyes, and France feels Canada’s little hands wiping at his shirt a moment later.

“I got sick on you,” he tells him, so full of shame that it hurts France’s heart to see; he’s truly such a sweet boy, even when he’s pale and whimpering and throwing up into his little hands all over again, oh lord--

“ _Désolé_ ,” he weeps out apologetically, wanting so _badly_ to hold onto his Papa, to cry into his neck and have Papa comfort him, but he’s covered in drool and sick, and he doesn’t want Papa to be as filthy as he is, so he sits up in his arms and lets his tears fall miserably.

“ _Non_ ,” France tells him, adjusting his arms around the little boy (and tries very hard not to shiver at the sight of Canada’s disgusting nightgown, the poor dear) as he sighs. “It was only an accident, my love. Let’s get you cleaned up now.”

Canada nods, sniffling wetly as he’s carried out of his room and into Papa’s large bedroom; he knows Papa hasn’t been to bed yet, because all the fancy pillows are still on his bed, and the covers still look so neat and perfect. Canada likes Papa’s room, because it’s always warm (via the lavish fireplace to the right) and best of all, it’s got _Papa_ in it, with his big comfy bed that always smells a little like fresh flowers and soft soap.

France takes the queasy boy into the adjoining bathroom, holding him close as he starts the water for the bath-- oh, he loves indoor plumbing, almost as much as his little Canada. He stands Canada up on the floor carefully, tugging off his messed nightgown and immediately balling it up and throwing it away in the little bin by the toilet, sighing when he sees little Canada shivering. He pulls him into a hug, kissing his ear and stroking his hair. “You’ll be warm, just wait a moment, _mon petit_ ,” he whispers, reaching past Canada to shut the water off when the bath is full enough. He picks the boy up, so delicate and careful, and sets him in the warm water, watching the child sink down and immediately wash at his face, far too roughly, with his little hands.

“ _Chéri, chéri,_ ” France sighs, taking hold of Canada’s tiny wrists as he kneels beside the bath. “Not so rough; nothing is the matter.”

“I don’t want you to have to wait for me,” Canada tells him in a voice so tiny and precious, France wishes he could cup it in his hand and tuck it in his pocket, to hold onto when Canada is no longer a third his size with a heart perpetually larger than his own. He loves this boy so.

He leans in, dipping his hand in the water in order to wipe at Canada’s little face, bringing the boy’s head in to kiss his forehead for a long moment before speaking against his hairline. “I will wait forever and a day for you, _mon trésor_.”

Canada smiles a little at that, letting Papa grab a cloth and wash his face and hands, much more gently than he was doing before. Papa is always careful with him, always gentle and loving, like he doesn’t want a single odd stroke to ever cross the little boy in his care. Canada is very thankful he is loved as much as Papa loves him, _constantly_.

He tells Papa when he’s ready to get out (because he has to use the toilet), and France picks him up from the water, helping him to the toilet to relieve himself; France relaxes visibly when Canada doesn’t vomit again. He takes one of the towels from the rack, large and fluffy, and folds it around the little boy, kissing his head when Canada giggles, tells Papa he can’t move his arms! France dries him off, still so gentle and delicate, and Canada tells his Papa he loves him, tells him in French, and he loves seeing Papa smile at him the way he does when Canada speaks to him in such a way.

France picks him up, towel and all, and after letting the tub drain, takes the boy back to his room to get him another nightgown to wear. Canada squirms, which makes France look at him quietly, to see what the problem is.

“Bedtime,” Canada tells him, and France smiles, almost sadly.

“My _love_ ,” he murmurs, playfully exasperated, kissing Canada’s cheek as he folds a nightgown over the arm holding Canada against his hip, “you’re not sleeping in here tonight-- it’s a _mess_. Besides, don’t you want to sleep in the big bed with Papa?”

Canada looks surprised, like this is news to him, and bounces a little in France’s arms, lighting right up as he nods. “ _Oui_!” He chirps, with such precious excitement, France’s heart throbs in joy. “ _J’aime le grand lit_! Papa’s bed is so comfy-- oh, _merci, merci, Papa_!”

Papa himself chuckles at this, sweeping Canada back to his bedroom and sitting him on the edge of le grand lit, the object of Canada’s delight, apparently. He untucks the towel around the little boy, replacing it with the nightgown, which he tugs softly over Canada’s head, and moves his hair out from under the collar with his careful hands. He kisses Canada’s head, smiling when he’s thanked again, and moves to hang the towel up in the bathroom, before returning to the bedroom to begin moving the throw pillows from the bed. Canada helps, though he moves much more slowly, clearly sleepy, and France tries not to coo out his adoration for his precious boy.

“Move under the covers, Canada,” he tells him gently, holding them up for Canada to slide under, his head resting against the pillow, his hair spreading out in gentle waves of gold. He looks up at France with a little smile, putting his tiny hand over France’s large one as he stares at him.

“Aren’t you going to bed, Papa?” He asks softly, and France smooths his hair back with a nod.

“Let me get changed,” he tells the boy in a soft voice, kissing his forehead. “Papa will be there in just a moment, _cher_.”

Canada nods, and stays put as he watches Papa tug out his own sleeping gown, changing quietly to himself. He does everything so gentle with his hands, even when he isn’t touching Canada by doing up his buttons or lacing his shoes, and it makes Canada smile; he is lucky for a Papa as wonderful as his Papa France.

France slides into bed with Canada, then, lowering the light in the lamp beside his bed, for he knows Canada does not like to sleep in total darkness (and, to be quite honest, neither does he). He pulls the boy into his arms, kissing Canada’s damp hair and smiling as he feels Canada curl up to him, simply precious.

France almost falls asleep, since neither one of them speaks for a long time, but Canada brings him away from slumber when he whispers, “My tummy is still hurting.”

Papa sighs at that news, moving to pull Canada into his arms better, his hand going to rest over Canada’s tiny belly and rubbing there in slow circles, humming low in his throat as he feels Canada relax, bit by bit.

“Try to fall asleep now, _chéri,_ ” France whispers to him softly, kissing Canada’s temple. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t scold him, only rubs the boy’s upset tummy and holds him close, hoping to have him relax and rest, to sleep off his illness. Canada hums in reply, and France already knows he’s nodding off, which makes him smile.

He can hear when Canada falls asleep, how his breath slows and he stops wiggling, and he doesn’t stop rubbing his little belly, only slows down a great deal as he holds the child close, protecting him. He’s tired himself, but stays awake for a bit more, if only to make sure Canada really is resting, and won’t jolt awake.

When France does fall asleep, however, he kisses Canada’s temple once more, hand on the boy’s little tummy as he nuzzles into the child’s shoulder, falling asleep with the assurance his little boy is safe, here in his arms, at least for this night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> oooh my god German is much easier than French, this is what I know for sure now.
> 
> mon petit lapin: my little rabbit/bunny
> 
> désolé: sorry
> 
> mon petit: my little one/little boy
> 
> chéri: dearie
> 
> mon trésor: my treasure
> 
> J’aime le grand lit!: I love the big bed!
> 
> holy shit I think that's it? let me know if these are totally wrong because, again, I haven't taken French in about 6 years.


End file.
